Metallic Requiem
by Ivy Leaves
Summary: She resorts to drastic measures, but she's not as alone as she thinks she is... featuring Jack Off Jill's Strawberry Gashes. **PG13 for darkness of the overriding theme**


_**This is dedicated to my good friend Ariana, who has recently sworn never to try it again**_

Metallic Requiem 

**Turn her over, a candle is lit I see through her  
Blow it out and save all her ashes for me  
Curse me, sold her the poison that runs its course through her  
Pale white skin with strawberry gashes all over, all over**

            The knives are so innocent, so innocent it drives me insane. All lined up in their neat lines in the drawers, waiting for the house-elves to come prepare lunch. But breakfast is still going on, and the house-elves have long since been cleaning the common rooms and dorms, and so I am free to handle the metal knives as I wish.

            How innocent they are, when not in the hands of the wronged. I have always thought of them as the guilty party, as the ones that performed the dreadful deeds of suicide and homicide, but now… now, I know differently. They are not guilty. They are innocent, and it is the creature that wields them that gives that knife its guilt.

            The metallic edges glint, drawing me closer. I would never have resorted to this, had it not been for the events of today…

            But I will not think about that.

            It's hard to think anyhow, with this cloud of crazed hunger hanging over me. A hunger for… meaning? Family? Love? I do not know… I only know that that metallic glint of the knife can save me… oh, yes… how it will save me…

I look for the sharpest and find a slender meat knife. Oh, how attractive… I have never considered this before, I swear. I have always been the good one, the studious one, the kind and giving and unselfish and friendly and perfect and worldly and knowledgeable and nice one. Never the rebel.

Maybe this is why I am driven to this… need for one of the few things I have not achieved. My reputation will be tarnished, but I will be dead, so what do I care? This is not unselfish of me; au contraire, this is the most selfish thing I have ever done. I am not considering the effect on others, nor do I want to. For once, I only want to act upon myself. Is that so much to ask? Once, just once, the opportunity to perform a task solely for my benefit, not for others.

I'm not making a mistake, I am sure of that. I brandish the knife, watching it glow in the dim light of the kitchens. Caressing the blade before the strike… I am like a python. A python that eats itself, injecting poison slowly and surely…

**Watch me fault her  
You're living like a disaster  
She said, "kill me faster"  
With strawberry gashes all over**

I do wonder how they will react when they find me down here, milky white skin contrasting the dark red of blood on the stone floor. My skin will be stained and bloodied, but I will look for all the world like an angel: blood red hair against blood—white skin against red—green eyes closed—stone floor---

I can picture it so well.

            These are indeed the ramblings of a maniac.

            But I am a maniac, am I not? No sane person would be contemplating this…

I wonder if they'll come to my funeral. I wonder if I'll have a funeral. Deep inside, I know I want them to come to my funeral, and I know I want them to miss me. Once again, I am being selfish. But, oh, don't I deserve it? After being so giving all these years?

            I would have a Muggle funeral, I think. Maybe. Maybe I could weave both Muggle and magical into one tapestry to hang on the wall. Whose wall? I haven't yet decided. After all, this has only been going on for, what, fifteen minutes? Ten? I can even smell the flowers of my funeral: lilies—my namesake, the flower of death. How fitting. I suppose this is my destiny… I don't want a coffin—it would only box me in. I don't want to be boxed in: I want to be spread around; I want to be free to move. I want to have my body fall over the earth and water and float into the sky…

            Cremation.

            Is there time to write a will? Just to write that I want to be cremated? No, I suppose not. Hopefully my friends—there is no family anymore, except my sister, but she never loved me anyway—will be able to discern that I do not want a coffin…

            Oh, how the knife glitters…

            My skin would slip away gently, leaving the scarlet ink to flow freely from my veins. Finally loosening up, am I? Finally?

**Called her over, and asked her if she was improving  
She said - "feels fine, it's wonderful wonderful here"  
Hex me told her  
I dreamt of a devil that knew her  
Pale white skin with strawberry gashes all over, all over**

I wonder who would spread my ashes. My sister? No. She'd never agree to it. Never. She hated me then, she hates me now. I'm a freak to her… but good riddance, Petunia. I know you're happy to get rid of me. You never were the most caring person…

            I have friends, I suppose, few and far between, but I do have some. I thought they were trustworthy and kind and friendly before, and I thought I could, well, depend on them, but I now realize that depending on anyone is just foolish.

            I depended on my parents for maternal and paternal guidance alike… and look where it got me: right back where it started, without either. I miss them so much. Maybe this way I can be with them again, among silver clouds and haloed angels…

            If I went to heaven. I don't know—maybe killing yourself doesn't qualify for heaven. But I was good the rest of my life! The thought of not even being with my parents makes me relax my grip on the knife, but I soon clutch it tightly again.

            After all, I never really bothered with religion. Heaven and hell might be the same place—who knows? Besides, I can't live with this grief. It would tear away at me like a mad cannibal. I can't live with it, I just can't…

**Watch me fault her  
You're living like a disaster  
She said, "kill me faster"  
With strawberry gashes all over, all over**

            I crouch behind the counter and watch her. I know I should make a move, but maybe she'll put down the knife, and then I won't have to stop her, and then she won't hate me forever…

            Her eyes betray all her feelings, and it does pain me to see those feelings present in her eyes—anger, confusion, hate, and a million other things I cannot name. But the hate hurts me the most. She has never hated before, I am sure, she has always been kind and giving and innocent, always the fairytale princess in every way except for her lack of blonde hair, always… her. It's so unusual to see her with hate in her eyes, especially hate for herself. Maybe hate for whoever did this to her parents, but… mostly hate for herself.

            How on earth _can_ she hate herself? She's perfect! Is she blind enough not to see that? I know she knows how much of a good girl she is, maybe she wants to be something else, but, still… that's why I love her:

            Because she's_ her._

            She can't do this, she just can't! I'd die, I really would. I don't care if we're only sixteen, it's been four long, painful years, waiting for her to show any interest in getting to know me better—but she doesn't. I can't blame her, I suppose, I've been a womanizer, dumping girls left and right—but she doesn't know why I dumped them! I dumped them because---

            I dumped them because---

            I dumped them because—not one of them, not _one_ of them, could live up to her. All I want is someone who is half as good as her, half as perfect, half as beautiful, half as… her.

            Although I admit, I'd rather have her.

            Gryffindors are supposed to be brave, and I've been anything but brave. I've been a coward, never telling anyone how I feel. No one's guessed, either. I am, if anything, excellent at hiding things. Although I must admit, nothing has been so hard to hide as this. What would they say if they heard that I, the champion—well, everything—was in love with the death flower? I care too much about what people think: it's one of my two main downfalls. My other? I think that's simple: my other main downfall is… _her_.

            Which is why she can't do this. I'd grieve too much.

            I'm so selfish…

            She brings the knife towards her wrist and I still crouch, hoping that she'll change her mind and realize that it's a terrible wish, the wish to be dead. It's terrible. It causes so much pain for others…

            Well, I suppose I'm not the only one who is selfish.

**I play quiet, waiting for her voice to say:  
"Some things you lose, and some things you just give away"  
Scold me, failed her  
If only I held on tighter to her  
Pale white skin, blood twisted and withered away from me, from me**

            I press the flat edge of the blade against the pale skin of my wrist, shivering as the freezing cold metal touches me. I've turned the knife guilty. It can never be innocent again.

            My breathing is slightly rasping and irregular now, but aside from that, I am calm. I never knew that suicide could be calm—I thought it was a turmoil of emotions, left and right, up and down. Of course, I've never really thought about it, just heard about it and wondered. Never contemplated.

            Oh, but am I ever making up for lost time now.

            My skin will fall away like unnaturally thin and smooth leather cut with a tanner's knife. Is that what I am doing? Tanning my own hide? How appropriate. How very appropriate.

            One inch and I will die. One centimeter, even. I should probably slash my throat, it would be a quicker death, but that's too grisly for me. Too grisly! Even suicide cannot completely change my obedient and good ways.

            I will die a good girl.

            I suppose that won't be so bad.

            I shift the knife, but as the blade begins to bite on my skin, a hand snakes around me and snatches the knife. The nerve! Here I am, trying to commit a _crime_ for crying out loud, and somebody stops me!

            The desperation is clouding my mind. I'm sure if I were perfectly sane, I would have thanked my savior. But the thing is—I'm not perfectly sane. Quite the opposite. This has driven me to measures I never thought I would succumb to, though right now, I am ever so ready to succumb.

            "Don't," my savior says. I have forgotten about him, lost in thoughts of insanity. My eyes slowly focus on him, but it's hazy. It's so hard to concentrate on something else when all your thoughts are on suicide. "Please don't." Those words are so full of pain that it hurts. He's just as desperate to save me as I am desperate to die. I try to focus in on him more, try to get a sharper, clearer image of him, and my vision improves slightly. Messy hair, black, I think; tanned skin, from what looks like hours of outdoor activities, probably Quidditch, with that build; tall; brown eyes…

            His eyes are what draw me in. They resemble liquid amber melted with dark chocolate and maybe a bit of honey mixed in. Raw emotion burns in them like a candle just lit. He's desperate, I can tell, oh yes, and he cares…

            I fall, unable to hold myself up any longer. He catches me and draws me up, and suddenly I am delirious. He cares! Someone _cares_! I would never have thought, ever, except for my parents—

            With the delirium, my vision also sharpens, and I recognize him. Who couldn't recognize him? Everyone knows him…

            "Don't do it," he begs, oblivious to my realization. "I don't—don't want you to go…"

            "You're—" I choke out. "You're—"

            "I'm sorry, but I had to do it. You can't kill yourself, you really can't. I care, I do. I care… so much…"

            His eyes are so intoxicating. So bright and alive it kills me. So emotional. I wonder how on earth someone like me ever attracted the attention of someone like him. He can't have seen me run out of the Hall, can't have followed me. And yet—that's the only way he would have known where to come, unless he knows that the house-elves leave the knife drawers unlocked, unless he knows that death by blood loss is the only death I find fitting for a suicidal being like me.

            "Please don't," he says again. "I'd die…"

**Watch me lose her  
It's almost like losing myself  
Give her my soul and let them take somebody else get away from me**

            He'd die.

            If I was gone, he'd die.

            What in the world does that mean? That he loves me? I can count the number of times, counting just now, he's spoken to me on one hand. How can he possibly love me so much he'd die if I was gone?

            But I don't have time to think about that anymore.

            His mouth covers mine. He's apparently decided  that if his eyes won't convince me and his words won't convince me and his movements can't convince me, his lips can.

            By Merlin, he's right.

            This is so wrong. I always thought you were supposed to maybe talk to them for a while before kissing them, even go out with them, whatever, not just say a couple sentences to you and then proceed to kiss you absolutely senseless…

            But he is kissing me senseless, and I don't mind. I don't know how we got from suicide to kissing, but we did, and it feels so good… my fingers are burying themselves in his hair, and all I can think about is how much his fan club is going to hate me for this…

            "Don't," he rasps, breaking lip contact for a minute but reconnecting as soon as humanly possible, "you—want—to—live?" His words are punctuated nicely with deep kisses.

            "They're dead," I murmur against his mouth. "I can't live without them…"

            "I can't—live—without—you," he argues gently.

            This is so incredibly wrong. It must be a hoax. There's no possible way he's down in the kitchens with me, kissing me to save me from suicide. It's impossible, it's unbelievable, it's…

            "Real," I told him. He stops kissing me entirely and looks at me with those brown eyes I've already become infatuated with.

            "I'm not—kidding," he tells me, breathing labored. "It—may sound—like—it, but I swear—I'm—not kidding. I would—never do something—like—this—to you—if it was—a joke."

            "Liar," I say, tears welling up in my eyes. "Stop lying to me. Give me my knife. I want to die."

            "I'm not lying," he protests. "Don't do it… Please don't, please…"

            Those infamous raw emotions are still in his eyes, but—wonder of wonders—there's no guilt. Only caring. I can't believe it, though—no one cares about me. No one.

            Except, obviously, him.

            I collapse into him, sobbing, and I feel his arms tighten around me protectively. I feel so comforted in his arms; so welcome that it amazes me. There's no way I can feel like this. No possible way.

            And yet…

            I don't finish that thought. He leads me out of the kitchens, and the last sound I hear is the sharp knife clattering onto the floor tiles with a metallic twang.

**Watch me fault her  
You're living like a disaster  
She said, "kill me faster"  
With strawberry gashes all over, all over me**

*

            That was dark. Oh, yes, very dark. And very weird. I dunno why it turned out so weird at the end, and I'm sorry. I hope you forgive me. I also hope you review it and tell me if it was too dark and/or weird. Please do. It'd make my day.

DISCLAIMER: "Strawberry Gashes" belongs to Jack Off Jill. It's an excellent song. I highly recommend it. Lily and James (whom this is about, in case you didn't catch that) belong to J.K. Rowling, as do house-elves and Quidditch. Anything you recognize isn't mine, let's leave it at that, okay?

Does anyone have a good challenge they've heard of or have made up? I'd like to write a challenge fic as I attempt to finish Chapter Three of Tangerine Dream (which is coming along veeeeeeeery slowly, please forgive me if it takes a while) and Chapter Three of When Angels Forget (coming along much faster). I know, I know, _way_ too many stories, but my school got out yesterday! What else is there to do? =D

Love you all lots, especially the reviewers.

---IVY


End file.
